Author Archives: Sandi LoConti

Stuck

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I was bound and determined to work through a few things this week, you know once and for all. Yeah it didn’t happen, somebody needed something, somebody went to the hospital, and somebody did something they needed help reconciling… you get the picture.

And I watched the news. I don’t watch the news but it was breaking and there I was sucked in to a police officer killed on Route 17 a minute from Stowe Lane. It happened at 1:30ish in the morning when, I believe, no good can come from being on Route 17 anyway. I pretty much don’t believe being on Route 17 is ever a good idea and I avoid it like the plague. But there it was, officer killed after a tractor trailer rear-ended (these two words, although true, cannot convey the magnitude of the force) his vehicle into a retaining wall.

In all the things that rattle around in my head, this one got stuck. A few days later I was riding down Route 17 and passed the accident site. It took my breath away, bought tears to my eyes and reflexively I crossed myself something I haven’t done in years. I watched this retaining wall going up, little by little, and realized it had just recently been finished. I remember seeing the family all standing looking at it with their hands on their hips. I can’t imagine the sound that woke them. I can’t imagine their confusion and that one split second when they realize the crash had destroyed all their hard work before they also realized that this is a tragedy that can’t be resolved and that they might not want to live there anymore. You see where my head goes.

You can’t help hearing your heart break for the family of this distinguished young man. But I can’t help thinking about the man who has to live with this the rest of his life. This was a working man who got in his truck at 11am and found himself…what? Avoiding something in the road? Asleep for a split second? What were his options? There is just no good in this. And there are plenty of people wondering the same thing. I was surprised to read many of the comments relating to the trucking industry’s lack of driver care. I was also surprised to read about the radar practices of many of the police forces bordering on blatant entrapment. For some reason I can’t get my head around the universe conspiring on so many levels to an end that may possibly NOT have something good come out of it.

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It pains me when I believe someone has been taken too soon but I know that there is something far bigger than me at work when that happens. I can merge it in my head with things like perhaps they were destined for some horrible disease and they were spared that. I don’t know why things happen and mostly I don’t involve myself in trying to figure it out, I’m a tiny piece of the puzzle just one drop in the web and I appreciate the reminder to stay in today.

With all the things I’ve had to reconcile, with all the things yet to be reconciled, I just need a sign that I can let this tragedy go because it’s really not mine and concentrate on my own “once and for all” resolutions. It’s been a week.

The Not Really a Strativarius

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It takes a certain kind of child to draw the bow instead of blow into an instrument, that’s not really my story but my violin has a story.

It was purchased by my grandmother for my Uncle Jerry during the Depression. Take that in for a minute, during the Depression. She paid 5 cents a month, or when she could, so that he could feed his love for music. Do you know how much 5 cents was during the Depression? How the hell did she do that? Well according to my mother she always had her crocheting in one pocket and her rosary in the other.   She made paper flowers with Mrs. Legore and Mrs. Marco (no Terri not Mrs. Spadafranc). And they sold their goods to…we have no idea. Milliners and nunneries and florists and retailers.

My Uncle Jerry grew tired of the violin, more a blow into an instrument kind of guy, so my Mother began to play. She was pretty good she thought ehhmm… She and my first cousin Nancy, who was around the same age as my Mother (it was a big Italian family, don’t ask) played together. In the attic. Because just how bad could Mary Had a Little Lamb be??? After the two hundredth time, you get the picture.

The violin lay dormant in someone’s attic, next to someone’s cedar chest until I entered fourth grade. I took up the violin, or rather it took up me. Yes I was the next generation to drive everyone to distraction with “Mary Had a Little Lamb” but I tried other things too. I do have one memory of being in the orchestra, sixth seat maybe, and during a pizzicato section actually hitting all the right notes. Really, it was a miracle because I was more about how cool I looked carrying it to school then becoming the next virtuoso.

My mother had it appraised at some point, I think when they were downsizing, and it came in at about 400.00. She thought it might be a….something…not exactly a Stradivarius but…something because her old music teacher really wanted it.

I’m not sure if my sister had any interest, I don’t remember her dragging it out. And so it went up in my attic, next to my cedar chest until I moved to Stowe Lane. Did I mention that magical things happen on Stowe Lane? I might have. My dear friend Mary Jo Anzel gifted me with some of her wonderful charcoal pieces. There was a huge study of a man with a cello which just begged to be hung over my fireplace accompanied, of course, by my tiny little almost hundred year old violin.

I don’t know what it’s worth, I don’t care to put a monetary value on it. I know that my Mother loved telling the story just recently, I know that if the house were on fire it wouldn’t be the first thing I grab but it has a rich story and a place in my home. It has a wonderful legacy.

Stuff

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Too many people spend money they haven’t earned to buy things they don’t want to impress people they don’t like….Will Rogers

What is it about stuff that makes it so addictive?  Is that the right word?  Should it be comforting?  Should it be impressive?  Whatever the description the rampant accumulation is frightening to me.  I had the advantage of living in a small space my whole life and stuff wasn’t always an option.  God bless himself, he loved stuff but had the good sense to live in anticipation of the big green garbage bag coming around every six months so it didn’t get too out of hand.  That’s been my answer to too much stuff for many years now, the big green garbage bag, I’m talking construction grade, no fooling around.  Other people find a periodic tag sale a good way to make purging fun, gotta love the art of the deal.

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I also had the advantage of a mentor who’s decorating philosophy was to surround yourself with only those things you loved so everywhere you looked, wherever your eyes set, they set on something with meaning.  This can present as a problem only if you’ve got to decide what to take with you if the house is on fire….no worries all I’m taking are Toto and Lina.

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I’ve noticed that it’s at certain turning points (there’s those words again) that one begins to shed their stuff.  Big life changes like divorce, moving, or illness seem to bring a clarity that no longer includes stuff. Starting over in a life can give you pause; it also gives you the advantage of presenting your life the way you’ve always wanted. I’ve been following a blogger named Joshua Becker for some time and his becoming minimalist philosophy presents a rational approach to minimalism.  “It is written to inspire you to intentionally live with less. And find more life because of it.” I encourage you to follow him, and his family, on their journey.  They are not lacking for anything but the need for a big green garbage bag…

That said, as I look around my home I am indeed surrounded by only things I love.  Every single thing has and is a story running the gamut of joyous to profoundly ordinary accompanied by a laugh or a sigh.  Each thing has a legacy.  So it’s not just people it can be things too.  It’s a legacy thing…you see where this is going right?  As part of our continued story of ordinary legacies I’ll be incorporating an additional blog post each week on a “legacy thing”.  I hope you’ll look around your own home and find those things that summon up a story and let us know about them so we can share them here.

Nobody brings home the point quite like George Carlin, so enjoy one of his most famous rants about….stuff.

Stay tuned.

 

Turning Point…Community

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It’s hard to believe I’ve been writing Ordinary Legacy for five years. Five years of pouring my heart out onto the page and into your lives with as much humor as I could stand or as much grace as I could muster. It’s been quite a journey through the moments in time that stopped my heart and restarted my life. I am so grateful for the day that started it all, sitting around a table with two women who, to this day, are dear to me in so many ways. The way they hardly knew each other but who knew me well enough to prod me on to just begin. And begin I did, and continue through I did, and now I feel I’ve reached a turning point. And isn’t that the way all changes begin? At some turning point, whether it’s a tragedy, a triumph, a loss or a gain? Ordinary Legacy is growing up and as almost all people and things mature they must evolve to stay relevant. They must become about something other than the original, something more.

More, more than me. Ordinary Legacy is transforming into a community. As defined by Dee Hock: “The essence of community, is heart and soul…Community is composed of that which we don’t attempt to measure, for which we keep no record and ask no recompense. Most are things we cannot measure no matter how hard we try.”

In the past few weeks I’ve learned so much about people and how they see themselves. I’ve learned to listen more closely to how they want their story told. I’ve learned that people tend to run up and over themselves in the day to day. As Gretchen Rubin is fond of saying, “The days are long but the years are short”. Is there a way to stop the years, no probably not. Is there a way to make them count, I’m sure of it. It’s been said that thinking just one minute beyond what’s happening now can both create or prevent outcomes. Just one minute.

I am finally awake to the fact that everybody has and is a story, all of them worth telling in their ordinary yet extraordinary way. There are people like my Father who, now that he’s gone, can only live on through my sister and me and on these pages. When we are gone there is a chance that no one will ever say his name again, the thought of that is one of the reasons this blog exists.

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My mother has a very different story, her nieces and nephews have passed on Aunt Marie stories over and over. Those stories are irrevocably linked to their grandmothers. The kids we grew up with will be telling the Rere stories to their kids too. My mother has spread herself far and wide and will continue on in the stories told about her for generations. She is an extraordinary legacy because she’s living her life the way she wants her story told. Does she realize it? Probably not, imagine if she did…

We all live in several different types of communities, there is our actual home community, our spiritual community our work community. All of these communities are rich with personal stories. At every turn there are people you will always remember, whether they know it or not. For instance, I was hired by a man nineteen years ago who will be retiring in October. I have a million stories that could be relayed here, some of them good, some frustrating, some funny, some not so much. The fabric of this relationship has a strong thread of gratitude through it, nubby in places where we don’t see eye to eye, smooth in the places that we’ve laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe and the tears were running down our faces. The sheen is one of respect, the strength admiration, the color vibrant. It’s my guess that after he retires I might not see him again, but I will remember him my whole life. He is living his life the way he wants his story told. I believe he is well aware of it. “Integrity is a powerful force, keeping you alive to others long after you’ve left their presence.” ― Mollie Marti

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I believe that most of us fall somewhere in the middle, I believe that given the right forum one might really catch on to the possibilities that small things can make a difference and that those small things we change today will define the stories that are told about us. I believe I have the super power of listening and actually hearing beyond the words and that it honors me to be able to tell someone’s story. I believe that I can teach. I believe that I can learn.

I know like I know that I can create a place where stories can be told just like at the kitchen tables of old. I don’t know exactly how I’m going to do it but I want to try. I hope you’ll stick with me as I sort through the zillion thoughts in my head about round tables and discussions. About creating a place where legacies, like my Father’s, can reside safe in the body of work that will be yours, mine and ours. Give me your thoughts, tell me your stories, and let me be your voice. Together this community will come alive and stay alive through moments in time and lives well lived. Come on…

The Power of Collaboration

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Many ideas grow better when transplanted into another mind than the one where they sprang up. —Oliver Wendell Holmes

This has been an interesting week in terms of collaborating, from business to personal there have been many heads together sharing ideas, enlightening one another or just plain brain storming. I found myself in “meetings” of all kinds that proved very satisfying. As you know that isn’t often the case.

It seems that most misunderstandings start from lone assumptions, yeah yeah I know you’re shocked. You’d be surprised at how long someone can carry an assumption around before they consider its validity.  Such was the case between two mothers who, up until just recently, seemed to make their blended families work just fine. You know the old adage about assuming.  Each believed the other was conspiring against them until one had the courage to call the other and they sat down to join forces and try to understand where things ran amuck.  There was a culprit; it turned out it was neither of them.

Sometimes someone’s burning question becomes a thought provoking discussion.  A Facebook friend had just been informed that one of their former clients had passed. The question, should they delete that person from their phone?  All manner of opinion sprung from that question, all manner of spiritual beliefs and pragmatism showed up in the comment section of the post.  I don’t know what they decided but there was certainly enough food for thought.

Meals and drinks shared with friends were end to end this week.  I was a bit amused at three different women sharing lunch talking about a TV show we had all seen.  I mean we are three distinctly different women, yet there was that one strand, aside from the fact that we were colleagues, that ran through us. Even tiny moments like that blow me away.

Erma Bombeck once said, “It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else”.  I’ve had the distinct honor and pleasure to be part of a friend’s burgeoning new venture and she has been an amazing supporter of Ordinary Legacy. This week each of us has played devil’s advocate, creative genius, or soothsayer to the other. The results are always enlightening, encouraging and creative, this week was no exception.

The point is no one can come into their own without others.  I say this as the daughter of a man who considered himself a loner and may have passed some of those genetics along.  I can certainly be social but I have spent much time on my own and tend to ruminate on things myself.  I am learning that “no one can whistle a symphony” as someone once said.  I started to really understand this just a few years ago, but it actually came home when a dear friend sent me a TED talk by Boyd Varty.  It was about the African concept of Ubuntu: I am because of you.

I hope you’ll be more aware of the collaborative moments in your life and know like you know they make you what you are, good, bad or indifferent.